


The Ghost of the West Tower

by BlazeRiddle



Series: This just sort of happened [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Ghost school AU, M/M, Teenlock, ghostlock, upped the rating because Moriarty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-24 06:27:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2571503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlazeRiddle/pseuds/BlazeRiddle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John Watson goes to a classical, very prestigious school on a scholarship, he learns that the school ghost isn't as bad as everyone thinks...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scholarship

**Author's Note:**

> based off of [ this post (contains minor spoilers)](http://watsoh.tumblr.com/post/101583693258/ok-but-consider-the-following-au)  
> Something popped into my head an I hope it will turn out okay... we'll see soon enough :)

The Academy For Special Needing Individuals was one of the most prestigious schooling institutions in the Kingdom. Its several locations all over the islands were all famous for producing the top students who all went to the top universities and became the best doctors, or bankers, or lawyers. Anyone who would enter the system, most of them at age five, would come out glorious at age eighteen. Of course, these kind of amazing results came at a price; the only way to enter was with a very big sack of money or a scholarship - the latter of which was only given every fifty years or so.

The Bedford location of the institution was the oldest of them all, situated in a big old castle on a man-made hill outside of town, the grounds including a large forest and several sports fields and surrounded by big fences, and it hadn't had a scholarship student in almost two hundred years. In those years, it had grown to the most posh location of the most posh institution in the country that invented the word posh. Except for a single incident twenty years ago, the reputation of the school was unmarred and pristine like snow white silk.

John Watson looked up at the enormous form of the main building from his mother's sedan and sighed deeply before opening the car door and getting out. The wind played with his blond hair as he blinked against the bright September sun. He moved to the trunk and pulled out his duffle bag as his mother slammed the door behind her and came around the car. She looked at her son with wet eyes and hugged him to herself tightly. "My boy." She sniffed, "Going to a school like this... You'll be the pride of the family, you will." She pressed a wet kiss to his cheek and looked at him with teary eyes. "Your dad's proud of you, too, you know." She smiled a watery smile at him as his eyes hardened.

"Just... Be safe, okay?" He asked. "You and Harry... Write me, or call, or contact me in any way when you need me." He looked at his mother intently. "Promise?"

"Promise." His mother pulled him into another hug, kissed him, once more, then let him go. "Go on, off you go." She said, smiling brightly as she waved him off. "Go and be brilliant."

John smirked and moved off through the open gate, over the long path that lead to the front door. There was a man in uniform waiting for him, neither old nor young, with grey hair, an almost wrinkle-free face, and kind brown eyes.

"John Watson?" he asked, smiling at the boy."I'm Gregory Lestrade, the ground keeper. Most students call me Greg." They shook hands and Greg gestured inside. "The headmaster asked me to show you to his office, follow me."

They moved through a maze of halls that made John's head spin, and he watched in awe as each and every student greeted Greg, completely ignoring John. Eventually, Greg stopped at two dark wooden doors and rapped on them.

"Enter." Greg opened the doors and John followed him inside. There was a man at the desk, about Greg's age, with auburn- reddish hair and a downturned mouth. He looked up from the papers he'd been working on and smiled, his face looking strangely unnatural with it. "Ah, the new arrival. Thank you, Gregory." Greg nodded and left, leaving John with the man. John stood there, close to the door, uncertain.

"Please, Watson, seat yourself." The man gestured to a luxurious chair and John sat down. The man lay down his pen, focussing his attention solely on the boy. "I am Headmaster Holmes, head of the Bedford Academy For Special Needing Individuals. Now, since you are the first student in a while to be selected for this school, and no member of your family has been part of the Academy's ensemble, I will explain a few things. As you know, this is a boarding school. You can go home after every semester, and all correspondence with anyone is completely open. You will be sharing a room with another boy your age, Michael Stamford, and I've asked him to show you around. I am certain you will get along." He checked his papers quickly. "There is a curfew, roaming the halls after nine o'clock or before seven is prohibited. The West tower is prohibited. Bullying is not accepted."

John nodded, but the man frowned.

"We are not kidding, Watson. If anyone bullies you, you come directly to me. With your status you'll get your part. There are strict and heavy repercussions for the ones who bully others. Understood?"

John nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Good." Mr. Holmes pressed a button and there was a knock on the door. "You can leave now; that is Michael to lead you around." The man turned back to his papers and John left, nearly bumping into a 'Michael'. The boy, slightly taller than John, chubby and with standard glasses and rosy cheeks and brown hair, smiled at him and held out his hand. "You must be John." He said, shaking his hand. "I'm Mike Stamford, I'll give you a tour."

John nodded and followed the boy. "So, you from the North?" He asked, recognising the boy's accent. Mike smiled at him.

"Nottingham, actually." He confessed. "But me dad's from up north. He's a banker, went to this school, too. What about you?"

John scratched his head. "Scholarship. My mum's a nurse and my dad's... a loan worker." John swallowed and hoped the boy wasn't a prick. Mike just laughed, unbelieving.

"A scholarship? We haven't had scholarship students in _forever_! For what?"

"Sports, in general. They say. I mean, I'm good at rugby and football, but it might have something to do with my biology papers." John glanced sidelong at Mike to see if he was listening. "At my old school, we had to write some papers on the functions of different organs. I impressed my teachers."

Mike smiled brightly still and nodded. "You should let me read them sometime! If you don't mind, of course. I want to be a doctor when I get away from here."

"Me, too!" John grinned, then looked around. "Where are we? Bloody hell, dude, you need to draw me a map."

"This is the main hallway, basically you came in through those doors and the Great Hall where we have parties and dinners and stuff is on the other end. Also, lots of staircases here, and if you touch your hand to a wall and follow it, you'll end up here, eventually." He pointed to a small wooden door. "Greg is usually over there, so if you ever get lost, go to him. All the first years do it." Mike moved down the hall and bypassed the two huge doors that John supposed lead to the Great Hall. A moment later, they walked through a set of doors and were outside, in some sort of garden surrounded by four walls. John looked around and noted the four towers, three of them roofed with red tiles, one in black. "That's the West tower." Mike explained. "Prohibited, as you've probably heard. "

"Why?" John asked, looking up at the Gothic structure. The grey-white stone had... something, and it was obvious that the towers were originally tiled in black. Why change it, he wondered.

"They say something happened there, twenty years ago or so. Rumours say... Someone _died_ up there. Say the ghost's still out there."

"And you believe it?" John asked, staring up at the building. Had he imagined, or was that a ratty curtain moving?

"Dunno." Mike said, shrugging. "I hear things sometimes. Ya know, I have the room closest to the tower. It's the only one in the hall, but me sister's right around the corner. Of course, every entrance is bolted shut, but sometimes there's rattling, or something. Anyway, you'll find out soon enough."

John frowned and turned to his new friend. "What d'you mean?"

"Bill Murray's got a key. Usually we tell the six year olds some story about a golden locket and send them in, wait for them to come out screaming. The atmosphere in there is eerie, you know, even if there isn't no ghost." Mike frowned. "Since you've got ten years on the others, Bill'll probably force you to stay inside all night."

John shrugged. "A night in a tower? I've had worse. I just hope they have beds."


	2. The third night

"Scholarship guy!" John cringed at the nickname but he stopped, turned, and smiled at Bill, who came hurrying down the hall. John had just been making his way back to the room he shared with a boy whom everyone called Spike, and he really wasn't in the mood for Bills teasing, but tonight was the Third Night, and he was supposed to go into the Tower tonight. He wasn't looking forward to it, not after the stories he'd heard. Everyone seemed to have one, from doorknobs rattling to curtains moving to eerie and icy atmospheres - John Watson did not believe in ghosts, but it was hard to maintain that status after all the stories.

"What is it, Bill?"

"Tonight's the night." Bill grinned. "You nervous?"

"Not really."

"I was when I went in." Bill confessed. "It fucking terrified me. Never told anyone, but I got a lampshade hurled at my head."

John rolled his eyes. In the past two days, Bill had spoken of sheets flying, pens writing on their own, lamps flickering on and off without power, and now a lampshade being hurled at his head by some deity. John had a hard time believing any of it.

"Well, you were a cry-baby when you came in, as you will be when I go in." John turned and walked off, ignoring the protests from behind him and making his way to the only seemingly _normal_ person he'd met in the past three days.

"Hey Greg, do you know where I can get any stamps?" John didn't bother knocking as he walked into the small office. After all, Greg had explained the lights system the staff worked with. When the light above an office door was on, the person inside was busy. Any other time people could just enter his office without knocking, Greg had assured him.

Greg looked up from where he had been filling in some forms. "Post office's a good place to start." He smirked. "I'm going there tomorrow, I can bring them back for you. Envelopes, too?"

"Nah." John studied the books crammed in the singular bookshelf. "My mum provided those; she just forgot the stamps. Thank you, though."

"Don't mention it. Hey- it's your third night, tonight, right?"

"Yeah?" John asked cautiously.

"Look, I'm not supposed to know about this, but... Be careful, all right? With whatever you're _not_ going to do tonight. Don't trust all the stories, but something _did_ happen in that tower that got it shut down."

"Do you know what?" John asked, eager to unravel the mystery of the imposing tower.

"Of course I do. But I can't tell you." Greg smiled at him. "Now please, go bother someone else. I have work to do." He smiled at the boy as he left the room and closed the door. The light turned on behind him.

 

That night, John made his sure way to Mike's room where the others were waiting. Bill leaned against the wall, smirking, a brass key dangling from his right hand.

"Follow me." Bill lead him through the halls to a small, inconspicuous door which he unlocked. "The only way in... or out." He said, waving John in. "Good luck." The door closed behind him and John heard the click of a key turning in the lock. _Oh, that fucker._

"Whoops, almost nine o'clock." He heard from the other side. "Got to go, don't want to break curfew. See you at seven!" there were footsteps walking away. He was really alone now.

"Okay, Watson." He muttered to himself. "You'll make it through this. Easily." He looked at the hallway before him and sighed. It was just another hallway, a short one, with two more doors, and a stairwell at the end. One of the doors lead to the castle, John knew, and the other one was locked when he tried it. Swallowing, John moved up the first stairs. There was some scuffling upstairs. _Rats_ , he told himself. _Just rats_.

The first floor was much like the ground one, with a bolted door to the rest of the castle and another one to a room, with a staircase going up opposite from the one going down. John tried the door and found it unlocked, and the hinges creaked as he pushed it open. The room seemed to be some sort of common room, with two old, dusty, comfortable-looking couches and a dinner table with chairs. On the table were a couple of papers, scribbled on with some black ink. Curious, John looked them over and found them to be biology notes written in a neat cursive. There was a small not at the top; _Do not copy - SH_. SH? Seemed like a boy who used to go to this school. Did people copy his notes often? He seemed like a smart guy, considering how much he knew about biology. John carefully folded the notes and slid them in his jacket pocket before moving out of the room and up to the next floor. The lock of the room on this floor was busted, and John entered it to find it to be a bedroom, the bed covered in black-and-white sheets, a desk standing in a corner and the walls crammed with bookshelves filled with study books of all kinds. The desk was littered with all kind of notes; John picked one up and skimmed over the complicated chemistry formulas. Turning around with his papers in his hand, he noticed a picture hanging in the shadows on the lowest bookshelf above the bed. John carefully climbed onto the bed to study it; It showed a young boy, around seven years old, an older boy in his teens and a red dog, an Irish Setter he recognised the race of because his aunt had one. The youngest boy had longish curly hair and bright eyes that looked straight into the camera as he posed. The older boy had something strangely familiar...

"Why are you in my room?" John turned and saw the slightly radiating presence of the see through boy in the doorway. He uttered a shout and tumbled off the bed, before getting up and pressing himself to the far wall, breathless. The boy came in, seemed to be floating. He had pale skin -of course- and dark curls tousled around his face, with the bright eyes at the centre point of it. "Who are you?" He asked, "You're not one of those brats." The boy narrowed his eyes at him. "Why the _bloody hell_ are you here?"

John closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. _Ghost._ He shook himself mentally. It didn't seem to be harmful, just irritated and a bit angry. Not _nearly_ as bad as some of the stuff he had dealt with back home.

"John Watson." He said, opening his eyes and staring the boy down. "I'm... I'm an scholarship student. It's my third night." His voice was steady as he spoke. It was one thing he'd learned: Never show you're scared. "You... Live here?"

"You're an exchange student?" The ghost asked, moving closer. Now that he was paying attention to it, John noticed how the boy moved his as if he was walking, but floated about an inch above the ground. "Interesting..." The boy studied him intently and for some reason it made John relax. It was certainly better than the irritated rage from moments before.

"You're SH?" he asked. The boy frowned, then nodded and held out his hand for John to shake.

"Sherlock Holmes." John took his hand and Sherlock jerked back, eyes wide.

"You can _touch_ me!" Sherlock stared at his own hand with wide eyes and then at John's. "You can _touch_ me?" He took John's hand and held it up to investigate. "How..."

John frowned. "Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"You can _touch_ me!" The boy looked up at him with delighted eyes. Standing this close, John noticed that Sherlock had a few inches on him, and how his skin was only slightly transparent, enough to vaguely see the room behind him, nothing more than a blur.

John frowned at the giddiness of the boy. "Yes?"

" _Yes!!_ " The boy turned and did a kind-of happy dance around the room before grabbing John at his shoulders and turning him around with him.

"Once in a blue moon someone comes who can _hear_ me, or _see_ me, but they run off! No one's ever _touched_ me!" Sherlock laughed and hugged the boy to him, then let go and caught the shocked look on the boy's face. "John, are you all right?"

John stumbled back and leaned against the wall. "I'm being _hugged_ by a _ghost_..." He choked out, staring at Sherlock. "There is an actual _ghost_ in front of me. I don't even believe in ghosts!"

"Neither did I." Sherlock sat down, cross-legged, and looked up at him. "Turns out we're real."

" _Oh, god_." John felt the room sway. "I need to lie down."

Sherlock moved up and fumbled for a bit. "You can- you can take my bed." He waved at it weakly and John stumbled over to it. Bowing with his head between his knees, he chuckled weakly. "How did you go from terrifyingly furious to giddy so fast?" He weakly asked, not looking up.

"Because you _touch_ me! You _talk_ to me!"Sherlock stood close by his side and his entire body seemed to glow a bit brighter. "Normally, people scream and run away when I enter a room, even if they can't see me. But you stayed... Why did you stay?"

John looked up, grinned at the boy, and shrugged. "Bill locked the door behind me." He confessed, and Sherlock frowned.

"William Murray... He came in here at age ten. I clicked the lights on and off and he fainted. Placed a lampshade on his head while he was out. He completely lost it." Sherlock smiled evilly at the memory and John laughed.

"That's all you did? You should hear the bollocks he tells, then. Something about you throwing a lamp at his head." John suddenly realised something. "Wait... Holmes? Do you know Mr Holmes?"

"Jup." Sherlock scowled. "He locked me in here, with all the bolts through the doors and locks on the windows... You know, I can pass through walls, but for some reason I can't leave the Tower."

John frowned, thinking. "I read this book on ghosts once, from this psychic guy? He said that in order to do some things, ghosts left behind sometimes need help."

Sherlock's face lid up. "That could be it! And now you're here..." He very nearly pulled John up, but hesitated before he decided to just turn and move to the door. " _Come on!_ "

John laughed. "What's the hurry? Bill's got the key, anyway."

Sherlock turned, eyes still sparking from excitement. "I've been stuck here for _twenty years_ , John! I want out!"

"Come here, you madman." John patted the space on the bed next to him, and dust flied. "We need to wait until little after dawn, so give a guy a rest, huh?" He cocked his head a bit. "Do you sleep?"

"Rarely, but yes."

"Come over here, then." John lay down himself, ignoring the dust. Sherlock moved over and lay down next to him. He stretched out his hand and touched John's shoulder.

"You really are amazed by this, are you?" John smiled. "You can come closer if you like."

"Really?" Sherlock scooted a bit closer to his side. John lifted his arm out of habit.

"Yeah. My sister and I do it all the time, on bad nights." Sherlock ducked around the arm, lay down on John's shoulder and snuggled against his side.

"Thank you." John smiled and allowed himself drift off, his last thought being that the body at his side didn't at all seem that cold for a ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, remember, the fifth of November... The day Benedict Cumberbatch got engaged! I can hardly believe it, but I'm happy for him. :D


	3. Roaming

"John?" The boy blinked awake at the shouts and tried not to move too much. He could feel the other boy still plastered to his side, asleep, and didn't want to wake him.

"Maybe he had a heart attack." That was Bill's voice, coming from downstairs. "Maybe he shat himself and is afraid to come out." The guy chuckled and there was a creak of the door. "Johnny boy!?"

The figure next to him stirred and sat up, blinking blearily. "Friend of yours?" He rumbled. John sighed.

"That's Bill." He sat up and moved off the edge of the bed. "Come on, let's go. I'm getting hungry."

Sherlock blinked at him. "You're really taking me along?" He asked. "You-"

"Of course! Why wouldn't I?"

"I'm a ghost!!"Sherlock stared at him, unbelieving.

"So?" John was already at the door. "You don't _want_ to leave the tower?" At his words, Sherlock was out of the bed and at his side, scowling down at him, in an instant.

"Of course I do. Come on." He strode out of the room and to the stairs, and John smiled, following him and bounding down the stairs.

"There you are." Bill grinned at him. "Sleep a bit?"

"Perfectly, actually." John stepped out into the sunlight and turned to watch how his new friend crossed the threshold with a careful step and a face-splitting grin. His skin seemed to reflect the sunlight a bit, like water did. "Did you know there's a bed up there? Quite comfortable." He strolled past Bill, following Sherlock who was walking around the courtyard in wonder. "Breakfast is in the great hall, right?" He pretended to casually ask Bill, but he glanced at Sherlock, who shrugged.

"I don't eat." He rumbled. "I'm just going to look around for a bit, if you don't mind. Get to know the place again."

Bill shrugged."Like always."

"All right." John said, and then frowned. "I have no class on until late this afternoon, so after breakfast it's back to the East Wing, I guess. First floor, room in the corner."

Sherlock nodded and Bill rolled his eyes.

"As long as you don't recite everything all the time, you're a cool guy, Scholarship."

John rolled his eyes, waved discretely at Sherlock, and strolled to the great hall for breakfast.

 

"How was it?" Mike asked, as he seated himself opposite to John. John frowned, being pulled out of his musings, then smiled at his friend.

"Well, I met a ghost." Mike laughed and John realised no one would ever believe him if he didn't have some sort of proof. For now, he let it rest, though; it was something he had to talk to Sherlock about. He decided to chuckle along with Mike instead.

"What, he threw a lamp shade at your head?" Mike roared. John laughed heartily, imagining an angry Sherlock chasing him down with a lampshade; if only.

There was a rustle and looking up, he found Sherlock behind Mike, smiling at him. The smile turned mischievous and then the ghost pressed his large hands over the boy's ears and drummed a rhythm against his temple. Mike's eyes grew big as saucers as John frowned at him, seemingly oblivious.

"Something wrong, Mike?" Sherlock positively _roared_ in laughter as he removed his hands and Mike swallowed heavily.

"N-no, no, just a migraine, I think. _I hope_." The last words were whispered, terrified as he was. John coughed to cover up his laugh and Sherlock howled.

"Sorry, mate." John wasn't sure if it was an apology or not, but seeing the merry face of his new friend, John was certain he didn't _want_ to. Sherlock winked at him and walked back, away through the wall behind him. John got up to clear his plate and as he walked away he couldn't suppress a faint smile.

 

"Watson!" John turned to see Greg striding his way, smiling. "Got your stamps. Walk me to the office?" John nodded and fell in pace behind the man, looking at his back, his grey hair, yet fit figure... the man was about forty years old, which meant...

"Sir, do you know what happened twenty years ago?" He asked, pulling the office door shut behind him. Greg turned, frowning. "What do you mean?"

John took a seat. "Why is the tower locked off?"

Greg sighed and handed over the stamps. "Did you see something there?" He folded his hands and suddenly fully looked the part of caretaker. "What do you know?"

"I found a room." John confessed. "There was a boy, wasn't there? Sherlock Holmes?"

Greg's eyes widened at the name, but he scraped his throat and his face turned neutral, stern, even. "There was an occurrence, twenty years ago. Do not mention this to Mister Holmes. If he hears that name uttered again..." Greg frowned. "Don't go back into the tower. Do not investigate this, forget the name."

John frowned. "I've already been into the tower. You're asking a sixteen years old boy to drop an adventure? Do you read _any_ books?"

Greg rolled his eyes. "Okay then. You get _one_ question, but then you drop it. Understood?"

"Got it." John frowned for a moment, thinking. Any question about what happened he could ask Sherlock, though he wasn't sure the boy would talk. Yet, there was one thing he was curious about that Sherlock wouldn't tell him, considering the way he'd talked...

"What was the relation between Sherlock and Mr Holmes?"

Greg closed his eyes for a second, looking as if he'd received a blow to the chest. He opened them and looked at the boy gravely. "They were brothers. Sherlock was Mr Holmes's younger sibling."

John sucked in a breath. He couldn't say he hadn't expected the answer; after all, Mr Holmes had the right age to be Sherlock's sibling. It was a bit weird, though, realising that his friend was twenty years older than he was. He tried not to think of it.

"Thank you." He said, and got up to leave the room. "For the stamps, too."

 

John spent most of the morning in the library, trying to look up more on ghosts. The library lady had been giving him strange looks, but he didn't really care for it until he wondered between the books and spotted Sherlock, staring at the old lady.

"Mrs Hudson." He whispered, as if to himself. "She still works here..." He turned suddenly. "You have to go to her, John, tell her _I'm_ here!" He talked excitedly and was nearly pulling John along to the woman. John rolled his eyes.

"Calm down, will you? What am I supposed to say? 'Hey, I met this ghost boy'?"

"Something like that." Sherlock pushed him forward and the woman looked up at them.

"Is there a problem, dear?" She asked. John swallowed and nodded.

"Yes-no, well..." John blushed and Sherlock scoffed. "For god's sake, just tell her!"

John took a deep breath. "I met someone in the west tower." He uttered boldly. "He... said I should talk to you." He swallowed. "Sherlock Holmes. He's... he's here."

The woman gasped and clutched her heart, tears suddenly filling her eyes. "Sherlock?" She gasped. "Dear, is it really you?" She looked around John but didn't seem to see anything.

"Tell her yes." Sherlock said, suddenly subdued. "And that I'm going to hug her now." He moved forward and John just had enough time to pass on the message before the tall boy enveloped the old woman in his long arms. The woman closed her eyes and hugged back, sensing the boy's presence and letting free some tears.

"Oh, Sherlock..."

"He's missed you too, Mrs Hudson." John rasped. Sherlock inhaled sharply and seemed to be crying - slightly shuddering shoulders and sniffing breaths all John could notice as he looked at his friend's back.

"Oh, Sherlock," The woman said, lowering her arms. "You've so much to catch up on... You know, we received all new science books last year. You'd love them." She lifted her head, looking at John. "Can you lift a book?"

"He can." John answered as his friend nodded and let go of the woman. The woman smiled to the room in general and then walked to the endless rows of books with Sherlock right behind her.

"Oh, this you will just love." She said, pulling out a thick book. "Microbiology. Sherlock, take this." She dropped the book in mid-air without looking and Sherlock caught it easily. "There should be something- ah. Advanced carbon sciences. I don't know if you've read this one." She turned to place the book atop of the other and frowned. "Oh, dear, that looks really strange. Maybe you should let your friend carry them, hmm?" She picked another thick book from the shelf. "This one is quite peculiar. Forensic sciences. I think your brother plans on dedicating a part of the library to you."

"He's smiling, Mrs."

"Of course he is. Now boy-" She pulled another book, slimmer than the others, from the shelf and held it out to him, "Maybe you should read this." She turned to the levitating books. "It's from Victor Trevor, dear. He's a stock broker now, I think, but he sometimes writes books about ghosts. I don't know why your brother allowed it here, but it might help you."

John smiled. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson. This will actually be very handy." He placed it atop the others and looked at Sherlock. "Is this all for now? I can't carry much more."

Sherlock threw a longing glance at the shelves. "We will come back." He assured them, or himself, or John. John smiled.

"Of course we will."

 

"Oi, Watson!" He stopped in his tracks at the unfamiliar voice and turned. Someone, seemingly an older version of Bill, only with a flat nose and a crooked grin, was prowling towards him with two goons at his side. "Scholarship boy, right?" He was leering evilly at John and the boy clutched the books slightly tighter to his chest. "Need all those books 'cause you don't have the money?" One of the goons spit on the floor before him and chuckled. John growled and bowed to place the books down. If they wanted to fight, he'd give them a fight.

"You're fighting them?" Sherlock asked, frowning. "You won't win."

"I don't _bloody_ care." John answered. "I don't care about what you say, because at least I _deserve_ to be here. I'm not some no-brainer who bought his way into some fancy school."

"You should really _stop talking_ now." Sherlock hissed. John grinned evilly at the three older boys as the two boys came closer.

"You wanna fight, Scholarship, huh? You wanna fight?" He rumbled, looming over John. Sherlock cringed. Poor, short John was about to find out all about the boarding school judo classes...

The goon swung his arm and John deftly dodged it. "You started it." He announced before landing a rough punch in the guy's stomach. He ducked to the side as the goon doubled over and braced himself for the other two who came his way. The second goon suddenly charged his was and John wasn't quick enough to dodge the head the rammed into the vulnerable flesh of his abdomen. He brought both his fists down on the boy's shoulders, bringing him off-balance and giving himself time to step back. He aimed for the goon's head, next, and knocked him down with an easy blow, but the other one had recovered and come up to him from behind, knocking him off his feet with a well-aimed kick to the back of his knees. John stumbled and fell to his knees, groaning. The goon dug his elbow into the back of his neck and John let himself fall forward, protecting his vertebrae. Sherlock watched, helpless, as the three boys surrounded his friend and kicked him in the stomach, chest... It was a good thing the boy was protecting his head. He couldn't do anything, these boys didn't sense him like Mike or Mrs Hudson did, and he couldn't bring himself to throw the science books at the boys... _Ah_. He quickly moved back through the wall behind him.

 

"BOYS!!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed, exiting the library with a book in her hand, Sherlock right behind her. The boys broke up and ran, hoping the woman hadn't recognised them, and Sherlock kneeled at his friend's side.

"John... John, you alive?"

John groaned in pain. "Can you see through me? If not, I'm probably alive." He turned to his back and squinted up at his friend for a few moments before chuckling. "Judging your face, I don't want to see myself right now."

"You look like shit." Sherlock touched his hand to the boy's lips. "Split lip. Will swell immensely if you don't put ice on it."

There was a scoff behind them. "Sherlock, get him to the sick ward, _please_." Mrs Hudson said, something like a smile in her voice. "Lord knows the boy needs it."

"I will." Sherlock said gravely, not realising the woman didn't hear him, helping John sit up. "Can you walk?"

"I can." With a bit of help, John stood. "I can walk, Sherlock." He looked over his shoulder at the worried woman. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson, you're an angel." John led himself be led and was surprised to find himself in front of two familiar dark wooden doors that most definitely did not lead to the sick ward.

"Sherlock?"

"You need to tell him what happened." Sherlock lifted John's hand and used it to knock on the doors. "Mycroft never tolerated bullying. He will help."


	4. Big brother

Mycroft looked up from his stack of paper and tried to hide his exasperated irritation behind a blank look. The Watson boy, and he looked like he had been fighting. "Watson, come in, sit down." He said, looking down at the papers. John came in, Sherlock on his heels, and closed the door behind them.

"What happened to you?" Mycroft asked. "Why aren't you in the sick bay?"

"I thought I should go to you first. Because of what you said about the bullying." He glanced uncertainly at Sherlock, who stood at his side watching his brother.

"I would have known." Mycroft said, sternly looking up. "I always know everything." It was a futile reassurance, considering the fact that the man's own brother was standing in the room and he didn't know. Sherlock told John as much in a grumbling tone.

"What happened?" Mr Holmes asked, putting his pen down and looking at the boy. John swallowed and frowned.

"John, just tell him." Sherlock crossed his arms and glared at his brother. John glanced at him again and nodded weakly.

"Some boys... I think Bill Murray's brother, and two others, they attacked me in the halls, said I needed to study a lot 'cause I don't have any money. Eventually one of them tried to punch me, and things went south from there."

Mr Holmes hummed. "And you did nothing in between?" he asked. "They just decided to punch you?"

"I defended myself, sir, but they started it and I told them as much." John looked into the cold blue eyes defiantly and the man nodded.

"Very well. Why did they comment on your studying habits?"

Sherlock huffed. " _Damn_ Mycroft and his need to know everything!"

John barely repressed a smile but refused to look at his friend. "I had just borrowed a few books from the library."

"What books? Be specific, John."

"Biology." At the man's glare, John swallowed. "Microbiology, advanced carbon sciences, forensic sciences. Yeah, those were the three. Mrs Hudson helped me pick them."

"And what would a boy like you do with _Advanced carbon sciences_? It seems a little out of your league, doesn't it? I know grown men who have trouble understanding that." Mycroft sneered down at him.

"It was for a friend." John explained, feeling himself grow red.

"For whom?" John swallowed and glanced at Sherlock nervously, who frowned, then nodded.

"Tell him."

"For whom, John?"

John took a deep breath. "For Sherlock."

 

Mycroft stared at him for a long time, sitting perched on the bureau. After an eternity, his gaze shifted into something harder, like ice. "What did you hear?" He asked, his voice cold enough to freeze something in the boy, dangerous but in a different way than that he was used to. John straightened a bit in his chair.

"I _heard_ there used to live a boy in the tower, Sherlock Holmes? Bloody brilliant. He asked me to carry his books, so I did." He noticed Sherlock's feint smile at the comment, but the ghost turned around the desk to study Mycroft's stuff and John could no longer see his face.

"John..." Mycroft let out a long-suffering sigh. "Who told you all this nonsense? Fooling me won't work."

John glanced at Sherlock, uncertain and getting slightly scared. "I'm not-"

"John." Mycroft looked at him with cold eyes. "We pay for your school. If you decide to try and trick _us_ ¸ we can always send you back _home_." Sherlock's head snapped up at this, scanning John's hidden fear with concerned eyes.

"Redbeard."

" _What_?" John looked at his friend, surprised at the randomness, and ignored the way Mycroft looked at him as if he was insane.

"Mention Redbeard." Sherlock explained, straightening. "He was my Irish Setter."

John frowned, then made a connection and smiled. "And you named him _Redbeard_? Like the pirate?" The twinkle in his friend's eye told him he was right, and his smile grew. "Hey, I had a tabby named Tigger, it's normal." Sherlock smiled too, and there was a slight movement ay the edge of John's vision. He realised Mycroft was moving to sit in his chair.

"Redbeard... How do you know of Redbeard?"

"He told me, just now. I think he realised it would help me convince you." John looked at his friend openly now, and relaxed. Mycroft studied him intently, ice eyes focussing on every part of his face.

"Do you see him?" The man tilted his head an inch. "Does he talk to you?"

"Yes, I do." Sherlock stood behind his brother with crossed arms. "Tell him he should lay off the sweets a bit. He's pudgy."

John chuckled. "I can't tell him that! He's the head of my school!"

"What?" Mycroft asked, his face blank.

"He..." John scraped his throat. "He says you're pudgy. You should lay off the sweets."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. "Where is he, then?"

"Right behind you."

Mycroft glanced at the shimmering metal pen holder on his desk. "there's no one there."

"There is!"

"Is there?"

"Oh, for god's-" Sherlock jumped over the desk, disrupting a paper, and did a silly dance in front of it. John couldn't contain his giggles. "I'm right _here_ , you morbid obese lunatic!"

" _Sherlock_!" John jumped up and pulled Sherlock into the other chair. "Just because he can't see you doesn't mean you can say what you want!"

Sherlock huffed. "What's the point of _decency_ when no one can _see me_?"

" _I_ can see you! And because the rest of the world can't, I can't just break out laughing or go all shocked because of something you said! Have mercy, _please_!" John was chuckling, now, shaking his head in resignation. "Whatever. Just try to be nice, all right? He's your brother."

Sherlock quirked a brow as John sat down. "As if you're so nice to yours."

"My _sister_ , you mean?" John shrugged. "I try to be. She's having a hard time as it is."

Sherlock frowned and studied him for a moment. "Did she-"

"John." The harsh voice snapped their attention back to the man sitting at the desk. "Please, refrain from talking to yourself _or Sherlock_ while you're with others. It is highly unnerving." He moved some papers around. "I will bring an old acquaintance of mine to the school to see what he can make of the situation." He looked up. "You are dismissed."

John stood and watched how his friend rolled his eyes, sighed deeply, and jumped up out of his chair before following him. John held open the door for him.


	5. baby steps...

It was three o'clock in the morning when something woke John. He opened his eyes groggily, taking a moment to register the figure standing in his doorway in the light of the occasional flash of lightning from the storm outside.

"Sherlock?"

The boy took a few hesitant steps into the room, seemingly unsure, insecure... scared? John frowned.

"Something wrong?"

Sherlock frowned, bit his lip. "I- I had a dream." There was a flash and a clap of thunder, and the boy jumped. John smiled at him.

"C'mere." He flipped his blankets back and Sherlock hurried over, slid into the bed, and curled up against the other boy, burying his head against his chest. John rested his chin on the curls and circles his arms around the back. "What was it, then?" He asked gently. "Was it a bad dream?"

He felt Sherlock nod. "I dreamt- you were there, and I tried to talk to you, but you ignored me, and then-" The boy breathed deeply, seemed to sob. "You walked right through me."

"Oh, Sherlock." He hugged the boy a bit tighter, couldn't resist pressing a small kiss to the curls. "I'm right here now. I can see you and will never again ignore you, not as long as I will live."

"You will." Sherlock mumbled against his chest."Everyone does." John frowned.

"Why?" Sherlock wiggled back a bit so he could look John n the eyes. "I say things. Do things. I'm-" He bit his tongue, studied John and then nodded to himself and moved back to John's chest. "Your father." He started, his voice soft. "You know how to handle conflict because of him. He's probably an addict, possibly an alcoholic. He abuses you. That's how you know which body parts to protect."

John nodded. "Amazing. I've seen you turn your focus on me. You just work that out?"

Sherlock nodded and continued. "You mentioned your sister."

"Yes." John rubbed his nose through the locks, surprised to smell... something.

"She's having a hard time because... She's just come out, hasn't she?" Sherlock stilled, awaiting his reactions.

"Yes." John breathed, astonished. "How did you-" He huffed a laugh. "You know what, never mind. I don't think I'd understand much of it." He sighed. "My dad was furious when he found out."

Sherlock placed his hand flat over John's heart, and the boy continued.

"He said Harriet should just find a guy with a _firm hand,_ someone who knows how to _control_ her-"

"And you disagree." Sherlock interrupted before John could get too worked up. John nodded.

"Harry always was different." John huffed. "She came out to me first, asked me if I would help her, at least. I promised. Promised I would do whatever I could... then this came and I just left. She was mad, to say the least."

"You feel guilty." Sherlock summarised.

"Yes."

"Because you didn't do it first." John stilled for a moment, swallowed. Sherlock had gone tense, too, his hand pressing into John's chest as if he could disappear any moment.

"Yes." He admitted. "Why... Where did this come from, Sherlock?"

"Wishful thinking?" The boy joked, then relaxed and huffed a breath against John's sternum. "You're bisexual, so you managed to hide it from your dad."

"Until now, yes."

They were silent for a long time, John almost dozing off.

 

"I am, too." Sherlock mumbled. It pulled John back to wakefulness. "It's why I'm... like this. Because I'm-" He took a deep breath. "I'm like your sister."

John smiled, squeezed the boy a bit tighter to him. "It's fine, Sherlock."He brushed his lips over the boy's crown again. "It's all fine. Sleep, now, please."

 

The next morning, when John woke, he stared right into two bright blue eyes.

"Your mortal body needs woke me." The curly-haired boy complained. John blinked a few times.

"What?"

"Your _stomach_ , John. You need food." As if on cue, the organ grumbled, and John chuckled.

"Join me?" He asked, not really willing to roll away from the other boy to get dressed. Sherlock frowned at him, tilting his head a bit.

"John, I don't have a stomach. Food is useless."

"Not to eat, idiot." John answered, grinning. "Just to keep me company. You can tell me all you can find out about the others. You do that, right?"

Sherlock didn't stop frowning. "Yes, I- How do you know? I don't remember telling you."

John shrugged. "You know everything of everyone. You knew I have a sister, so you do something to figure all that out."

Sherlock smiled. "Deduction. Maybe if you hang around for another twenty years I can teach you the basics."

"Ha ha." John rolled away to grab his discarded shirt off the floor. "Just come along or don't, you git." He shot the boy a lopsided grin as he sat up properly and slipped on the shirt. "You can make more fun of Mike." He offered, and Sherlock's face lid up in faux enthusiasm before the ghost rolled his eyes.

"Tedious, if not for how red your face gets when you try not to laugh."

John laughed. "Anyhow, I'm off." He said, after shrugging into his trousers. On impulse the boy leaned forward and placed a light kiss on the other's nose. "See you around."

He left the room before Sherlock could recover from his blinking bout, not looking around to see the shock.

 

Sherlock didn't show up for dinner, and John didn't see him until much later, in the library, curled up in a corner with one of the thick books Mrs Hudson had given him. He was slightly startled when John greeted him, then smiled and returned to the book.

"Mycroft is bringing in Trevor." The ghost said absentmindedly, flipping a page. John frowned.

"Who he?" John settled next to the boy as he glanced up again, frowning.

"Please never do that again." He turned back to the pages. "Victor Trevor is an old friend of mine."

"The guy from the book?" John frowned. "The one Mrs Hudson told about?"

"Yes. Apparently he imagines himself a ghost whisperer of sorts." Sherlock scoffed and John laughed, checking they were alone.

"You're not telling me you don't believe in ghosts, are you?"

Sherlock shrugged. "There are always exception to the rules." He grinned broadly before turning back to the book. John smiled at him and tried not to disturb him too much as he thought about what might happen when the mysterious ghost whisperer would arrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft doesn't believe in ghosts.  
> Just a fair warning, in the next chapter there's going to be a lot of backstory. Things are about to go down. I like it when things go down.


	6. ... and more baby steps...

"John Watson?" It was three days later, and Greg had picked John up from class and taken him to the headmaster's office without a word, so the boy had kind of been expecting this. Kind of. The man in front of him wasn't exactly the long-haired, bare-footed hippie John had been expecting, though. But Mrs Hudson had said that the ghost-seeing was just a past time.

The man looked the part of stock broker, all right, with his light grey measured suit and charcoal shirt. He was tall, _really_ tall, and had intelligent sparkling eyes and dirty blonde hair with not a single strand out of place, and a really charming smile as he shook John's hand with a strong, confident grip.

"Pleasure to meet you. Victor Trevor." The man gave John a

"Pleasure to meet you, Mr Trevor." John said, nodding his head respectfully. He wished Sherlock was there.

"Please, any friend of Sherlock's can call me Vic." The man smiled again. "I don't sense anyone. Is he here?" He gestured to the two chairs and they both sat down before John answered.

"Not right now." John shrugged. "He's probably in the library."

Victor smiled and nodded. "He'd always had a thing for Mrs Hudson." He mused, before turning serious and studying John. "You have questions."

"Yes. My best friend is currently a ghost." John smiled, trying to bring a bit of humour into a situation that would essentially be a screening to see if he was insane or not. "I'd like to know why."

Vic tilted his head just a little. "I believe you." He admitted. "If anyone can pull off becoming a ghost, it's Sherlock Holmes. But that's not what you asked." Victor leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. "Twenty years ago, there was a custom to have an annual Halloween ball. Because of what happened it was abolished, but back then, it was a big thing. All the older students would manage to get a date, have fun and be posh. That night, though, no one could find Sherlock. Our friend Jim went to look for him and found him... on the top of the West tower where the three of us had our residence, about to jump. He couldn't stop him." Victor stared into the distance at the memory. "Jim left school after that, and the West tower was closed off."

"And Sherlock became trapped as a ghost." John surmised. "But why?"

"Ghost stories usually tell a tale of unfinished business, a grudge, something along those lines. With Sherlock... He didn't really have much friends. Not many people liked him, because of what he could _deduce_ about people."

John nodded. "That is... understandable." He reasoned, remembering the hushed confession from a few nights before, trying to thing how it would've been for a boy twenty years ago, and coming up blank. "Must have been hard on him, being... _different_." John glanced at the older man, not sure how much he knew. Victor cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Homosexual, you mean?" He smiled at John's shocked face. "Though he never came out officially, it was pretty obvious. You know, with all the things he _didn't_ do." Victor shrugged. "It never mattered, anyway. He was gone before it could."

John nodded sadly in understanding.

"It was hard, you know." Victor mused. "He was my best friend. And Jim and I... we were his best friends. His only friends." Victor sighed. "Mycroft -Mr Holmes is working on calling in Jim. He wants us to figure out what is keeping his brother here, and resolve it. Says having a ghost around would be bad rep." Victor rolled his eyes. "It's all he ever seemed to care about. But we knew better." Victor smirked. "Greg and I. We used to be buddies, too, though the Holmes brothers didn't really care for him. One day, though..." Victor looked at John, a glint in his eyes. "If you ever need something done with that man, tell him you know he ate the peas."

"He-" John frowned, "He ate the peas? What?"

"Sherlock didn't like them." Victor smiled. "It makes good leverage."

 

That night Sherlock joined him in bed like always, and John told him about Victor. Sherlock buried his head in John's chest as the boy curled his fingers through his hair.

"I hope they don't find it." He whispered. John plucked at the strands at the back of the boy's head and frowned.

"Why not?"

Sherlock shrugged. "A few days ago I'd be fine with it." The ghost whispered. "But now... I'm finally out of that blasted tower. I don't want it to be over." The ghost's arms tightened around the boy and John pressed his cheek against the curls.

"Do you know why you're here?" He asked softly. He wanted to protect the boy, even if it meant preventing his passing on, and knowing what he had to protect him from would make things easier.

"Yes." Sherlock whispered. "I do. Won't tell you, though."

"Why not?"

"Because." There was something odd in his voice, but Sherlock's face was hidden so John couldn't read his expression. "Is Jim really coming?"

"Think so." John disentangled one hand from the other boy's hair to trace patterns over his back. "Problem?"

"Maybe." Sherlock tightened his grip more and moved his head as if snuggling into a giant pillow. "Tired. Sleep now."

John, who had very early learned that arguing would be useless, sighed in the boy's hair and settled for sleep himself.

 

It was a week later, and John had learned that Victor Trevor was a nice, sympathetic, outgoing man who loved to tell stories about his -and Sherlock's- time at the school. It also soon became clear that though the man could _sense_ Sherlock, sometimes see a shimmer of his reflection in the right light, he couldn't hear him or see his features, his dark hair or long fingers. John felt a stroke of pride at the knowledge that of all the people, only _he_ could see the boy.

He's also learned that James Moriarty was a condescending, arrogant, posh _prick_.

The man had arrived three days after Victor had, dressed in an impeccable black designer suit with a black tie and white shirt, his dark hair perfectly slicked, artsy stubble on his jaw. The man had greeted Victor with a fierce hug before his gaze had fallen on John. His grin had turned feral, and John, good, brave John who hadn't been afraid of a ghost, stepped back with the force of it.

"Ah," the man had drawled, "so _you're_ John Watson." He'd chewed the gum in his mouth lazily as he circled the boy. " _Boring._ "

The demeanour had left John stunned, and that night, Sherlock held him to his chest as John tried to forget how those eyes had studied him with that dangerous glint.

It didn't really work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really itching to finish this. The past week, I've had some great inspiration on how to re-write M.I.A. and I'm really looking forward to that. :)  
> Remember that you can always message or ask me things on [my tumblr](http://blazeriddle.tumblr.com/ask)


	7. ... and more baby steps...

"It's nearly Halloween, you know." John said, lounging on his bed watching Sherlock with one of the heavy textbooks. "That Jim guy has been here for nearly a m _onth_."

Sherlock hummed absently. "Victor, too."

"Yeah, but I don't _mind_ Victor." John splayed himself out on the bed like a starfish. "Moriarty gives me the creeps. Something is off about him."

Sherlock tensed and glanced at John, obviously trying to be casual. "He's always been like that. Don't think anything of it."

John stared at his friend. "Something _is_ off about him!" He exclaimed and Sherlock pulled his full attention to him, now.

"John, don't-"

"No, Sherlock, if something is wrong with him, I'm going to find out. He could be a serial killer for all we know!"

"You're-" Sherlock started to shout, but thought of something and frowned. "Not that far off, probably."

"Okay." John sat up. "You're telling me what you know, _now._ "

"John-"

" _Now_ , Sherlock." He tried not to react at hearing the coldness in his own voice. He sounded _so much_ like his father now, and he _hated_ it. Sherlock sat up, cross-legged, and frowned for a bit before talking.

"Jim was always a bit crooked. He managed to manipulate teachers into revealing where they kept test answers, mostly without them realising, then copied them and sold them- at great prices. He always sold the answers with a few mistakes, though, so not the entire school would have the same grade. He was smart." John nodded and Sherlock shrugged. "Eventually, he branched out to manipulating and threatening students, too. He was never caught."

"So why did you hang out with him?" John asked, bewildered. It didn't seem like the kind of people this nice, intelligent person would hang out with.

"I didn't." Sherlock admitted. "He was simply one of the two people who would hang out with _me._ " The boy shrugged, leaving his shoulders hunched just a bit, looking smaller and much, much more uncomfortable. "I wasn't that popular back then."

John smiled at his friend, who was now staring at his hands. "Come up here, you git." He ordered, smiling, and Sherlock looked up, confused. John patted the spot right next to him on the bed and Sherlock got up hesitantly, moving over to him. John smiled reassuringly, and Sherlock sat down and leaned his head on his shoulder. John pulled him close.

"Whatever happened back then," He assured him, "Whatever they did to you and whoever they were, I won't let it happen again. Understood?"

Sherlock nodded and moved his hand up to fist his shirt. John pressed the bottom of his face in the curls for a moment.

"You're safe now." He grumbled, to assure himself, too. They stayed close like that until John was called away by his nightmare late in the evening.

 

Jim Moriarty had insisted on meeting him at the entrance of the West Tower, where John had entered that first night. He stood there, with a bronze key and another feral grin. It reminded him of the pet lizard his neighbour had back home. The guy's whole demeanour reminded him of a snake, come to think of it. John chuckled.

"Something funny, Johnny boy?" Moriarty asked, and John quickly ruled himself in.

"Nothing, sir." John gestured at the key. "What are you planning?"

Moriarty quirked an eyebrow and unlocked the door behind him. "There is something I need to show you." He said, leading John inside. He kept walking, up the stairs. "You know, Johnny boy, I _believe_ you." The man drawled. John hated his newly found nickname. "I _believe_ Sherlock is still here, _connected_ to this place." He was leading John up the second flight of stairs, past Sherlock's old bedroom, and up another flight. "You must be very special, if you can see him." The man looked back for a moment, scanning John. "Though I don't see why. _So ordinary. Boring._ " He huffed as he turned back, and they climbed the last few steps of the last flight of stairs, bringing them to the cellar.

"You see, Johnny boy, there's something on the roof here." Moriarty opened a window leading to the steep panes and placed a crate underneath so they could climb out. "Something Sherlock left behind. It is crucial that we find it."

John nodded, contemplating it. If it was something of Sherlock's, the boy probably wanted it back, so he moved over and climbed out of the window, with Moriarty right behind him.

The window fell shut with a bang.

"Wha-" John turned around with a start and saw Jim standing there, in front of the window, his grin now most certainly dangerous.

"I don't know how much you know, Johnny boy," The man growled, face dark. "But from the looks you give me, it's too much."

John swallowed, then something -a lot of somethings- clicked into place and he gasped.

"You killed Sherlock Holmes." John resisted the urge to step back, keeping in the back of his mind that he'd most certainly would fall off the edge. "Didn't you? He thought you his friend!"

Moriarty laughed. "Such a handsome boy." He sing-sang. "And smart, too. So _not boring_. Unlike you. I don't see why he would hang out with _you_."

John frowned, ignoring the disdain. He was used to worse, anyway."What happened, then? Twenty years ago?"

"Oh, poor Sherlock." Moriarty mused. "I found him standing right there, where you are now. We talked for a bit, and then he just... jumped. Tragic, really. It took me years to get over it."

John crossed his arms. "Pretty sure you pushed him."

"Now, now, Johnny boy." He said, reaching into his jacket. "I would never do such a thing." He pulled out a gun, the dark metal gleaming dangerously and nearly giving John a heart attack, and pointed it at the boy.

"Just like I'm not going to push you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter! Nearly finished it already, so it should be up tomorrow. :)


	8. ... and giant leaps

When Sherlock saw the two entering the West Tower from where he was lurking behind a wall, he knew Moriarty was up to something, and would probably not end well for his new friend.

His _only_ friend. His _John_.

Sherlock hurried to find Victor, ignoring the walls and doors and people, and found him in Mycroft's office.

"I feel something..." Victor stood up the moment he entered the room. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock huffed and moved to the desk, knowing it was useless to speak. He took one of the expensive fountain pens and waved it around before angrily scribbling an a piece of paper.

 _West Tower. NOW._ He was writing quickly. _Bring everyone. Hurry._

Victor frowned. "Why?"

Sherlock took a deep breath.

_John Watson is definitely in danger._

 

Into the West Tower. Thank the deity that came up with the idea to give ghosts the ability to go through walls. For the first time in _ever_ , Sherlock used his powers to fly right up, through ceilings and floors, up all the way to the cellar, where he encountered another problem.

He could see him, out there, sense their souls outside of the room, but he couldn't go outside. So he went to the window and envisioned John, right there, climbing out, Moriarty on his heels.

He floated outside. John, for some reason, hadn't seen him. Why didn't John see him? What was- Oh.

That's a gun. Trained on John. Jim was pointing a gun at his John. _His_ John. He felt the anger boil inside him as the man stepped closer to _John,_ speaking words he didn't register, making _John_ step back-

"NO!!!!" He lurched forward, knocking John off his feet and tackling Jim. The gun fired once, feebly, as they toppled off the edge, down, down, down.

 

It was the last thing John Watson saw before he hit his head and passed out: His friend disappearing down over the edge of the tower, gone.

 

*

_John was floating, free, above everything. He could see Sherlock on top of the tower, together with someone else, and John knew it was the young James Moriarty, because he had the same ugly grin. He could hear them talk._

_"He's never going to come, you know." Jim said. "He doesn't really care for you."_

_"He does." Sherlock sniffled and John got angry. No one should be able to make Sherlock Holmes cry. "I_ know _he does."_

_"No one cares for you, Sherlock." Jim snarled. "Not even your own brother. You're just a disgusting faggot. He'll never come for you. He's going to the ball with Molly Hooper."_

_"He's not." Sherlock sniffled again. "He told me to meet him here. We'll go together. Confirmed bachelors." There was a small smile at Sherlock's lips and John smiled, too. "I even brought him a flower. A black rose." Sherlock held up the flower. Suddenly Jim grabbed his wrist, forcefully turning him and bringing him off-kilter. "Jim, what-"_

_"Why do you go after someone so_ ordinary _, Sherlock?" the boy snarled. "Why something so_ normal _?"_

_Sherlock frowned, confused. "I don't, he-"_

_"Prove it, then." Jim was pushing him to the edge. "Prove that you're not ordinary." He gave one last shove. "Prove that you can fly."_

_And Sherlock fell, toppled off the edge, down, down, down._

"Jim Moriarty is dead."

John slowly blinked awake and turned his head, staring at the vision sitting on the edge of the bed holding his hand.

"You fell off the tower." John swallowed, unbelieving. "You- he pushed you."

"I pushed him, this time." Sherlock smiled indulgently down at him. "And I can't get much more dead than this." He squeezed his hand. "How are you feeling?"

"Confused." He admitted. "You-" A thought suddenly occurred to his confused brain. "He's not going to hunt us, is he?"

"Don't be ridiculous, he got what he deserved." Sherlock frowned. "Are you _all right_?" He pressed.

"I'm fine, I-" John looked up as him in wonder. "You're here."

"Yes." Sherlock deadpanned, not quite getting what was going on.

"You- he-"

"Breathe, John." Sherlock placed his free hand on the boy's chest. "Think about what you're saying."

John closed his eyes, seeing the flashing images of his dream.

"He pushed you off the tower. He's the reason you stayed behind. Why are you here?"

Sherlock smiled, moved his hand up to cup John's face. "I've found a new reason to stick around." At John's confused look, he smiled. "You, John. You keep me right. You took me out of that bloody tower, you _see_ me, you _touch_ me, you stay with me. You, John Watson, make me forget. You _make me feel alive._ That is worth dying all over for."

John inhaled sharply and Sherlock worried his lower lip. "Not... good?"

John pulled Sherlock's hands out from underneath the boy, making him fall on top of him, and hugged him close, pressing endless amounts of kisses to his hair, forehead, face.

Sherlock froze as he felt the lips under him. _This,_ he realised, _this is what I've been waiting for. Have been craving. John._ He felt a relieved smile tug at his lips as he answered the unspoken question. _Never, John. Always. Always yours, but never again._

"You better not disappear again before I die." John growled, and he pressed another closed-mouthed kiss to his mouth.

Sherlock giggled. "Not _bloody_ likely."

 

*

 

Emily James stood at the gate of the most prestigious school of the British isles, staring up at the big building. Behind everything, the West tower stood fierce with its black panes. She'd heard the rumours. _Everyone_ had heard the rumours. The ghost, the boy, the man who jumped. A man named Doctor Watson, a teacher at the school now, had written a book about it.

She was curious about that man.

Her first class was chemistry, and she was surprised to see two teachers in front of the class. The shorter of the two smiled kindly at them and encouraged them to sit down.

"I'm sure you've heard the rumours." He started after he'd introduced himself as doctor Watson. Emily kept looking at the taller man with the dark curls and light eyes who intently studied the class, not hearing much of the speech the doctor was reciting.

The man looked her dead in the eyes and she looked away.

"John." The man interrupted the Doctor. "That one can _see_ me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. Hope you liked it!  
> This is the part where I thank all of you, for reading, commenting, and motivating me to keep going. I love you all.  
> Don't forget that you can leave me a prompt [here](http://blazeriddle.tumblr.com/ask) (Or just come by to chat, why not? :) ) And if you find any mistake in any way or form, please let me know! I appreciate it. :)  
> Okay. That's all for now. Love you all. <3


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